Stolen views in a busy room
by silja b
Summary: It's the little things that catch your eye.


**Stolen views in a busy room**

A/N: The result of being stuck in an airport with very little to do apart from sitting, watching and imagining. Seven linked drabbles, the first six 100 words, the last 75.

Disclaimer: Always check the weather forecast before booking a ticket to Scandinavia in February. And don't run with scissors. Your mother will scold you, even if you're 36 and should know better. Come to think of it, especially if you're 36 and should know better. And House _et al._ belongs to David Shore and Fox.

----

_Hands_

He has big hand. His bony, strong fingers betray a hidden gentleness so unlike him. Did someone say he plays the piano? The size is only natural since such things scale with height, but they're impressive nonetheless.

The left is awkward. It's learning to accomplish what the other is no longer free to do. Opening doors or closing a blue folder with an ever-satisfying snap.

You wonder what those fingers would feel like caressing the nape of your neck as if brushing aside an errant hair. Perhaps like a teasing breeze. Maybe that is his breath dancing across your skin.

_Lips_

It's your secret fantasy to imagine endearments falling from his lips when they're busy lamenting and lambasting the truly miserable state of the world. It makes your day almost pleasant despite his eager abuse.

In truth, you would have strangled him years ago if his lips weren't so captivating.

When you're particularly adventurous you look at the philtrum and see a landscape of light and shadow waiting for your caress. You'd draw your tongue across the thick bristle to tease and taste him. Other times you look at his nose hair and wish he'd take the time for a trim.

_Nose_

You have made a study of the little dimple on his nose. It was probably an embarrassing zit. Or maybe a bar fight? You're sure he's not a drunk, but he looks the part. Perhaps a patient whacked him. It wouldn't be the first time.

It's taunting you. His scars are public knowledge. They're products of his ghastly personality and pathological stubbornness. He would call it persistence. No, he would be honest. He would call it by its rightful name.

You look at it again and wonder why the only scar visible to the world has no story at all.

_Feet_

He always wears sneakers and oh, how their squeak on wet linoleum annoys you. Doctors wear nice suits, lab coats and French leather shoes. It's more professional.

It's too easy to see rebellion and utter irreverence in everything he does. He fights the hardest for his patients and he (almost) always wins. Somehow, it infuriates you. You deserve his respect, but you'll never have it. Your opinion doesn't matter.

You would love to hate him for it, but you know _why_ he wears them. He needs the traction and comfort. No, for all his bluster, it's never been about rebellion.

_Shoulders, back, legs_

He's skilled at the art of hiding. His strength is his greatest deception.

Your mind draws his body as a long line. The trapezius stretching wide and descending teasingly as an arrow pointing to narrow hips and impossibly long legs. But he's always in motion. He can't help it. It betrays the tightening of his shoulders, the fundamental asymmetry and imbalance. He winces. The brief glimpse steals the illusion of strength.

Each year his slouch worsens. A stranger might assume that he despises his height. You know better. The long line of his back did not bend willingly. You remember.

_Eyes_

There is a special shade of light blue only found in small Greek wayside chapels. It's the colour inside the Madonna's robe. Your mother called it the exact shade of joy. You call it the shade of his eyes when the light is just right.

Yet there is so little joy in them. There's only occasional mischief or an exited glare reflecting the latest conundrum.

What is the shade of his mother's reflection? With what colour would he look at his wet, slimy and brand-new firstborn?

You hope his eyes will one day hold the colour of the Madonna's robe.

_Professional demeanour_

"Brenda!"

The Dean's voice startles you.

"Yes, Doctor Cuddy," you say perhaps a little too fast. Did she notice your guilty preoccupation?

"Have you seen Doctor House?"

It's time to think fast.

"I think he just went into Exam 1. I'm sorry, but I'm really too busy to keep an eye on His Grumpiness."

"I know Brenda. It's fine. He's a handful. I know you have the patience of a saint."

You think, "I try."

----

_End_

Constructive criticism is more than welcome. Flames will be used for toasting marshmallows.


End file.
